


When Playing with Fire goes According to Plan

by Satelesque



Series: According to Plan [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Blatant Disregard for Personal Space, Blood, Bored Assholes, Gen, Motive Speculation, Of an unnamed side character, Torture, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22129141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satelesque/pseuds/Satelesque
Summary: “Ah, my king!  What a pleasant surprise!  Now what can I do for you this fine afternoon?”For a moment the two just grinned at each other, fully aware of how inane the question was.  Lucifer had no interest in territorial squabbles.  He could have only one reason to seek out Alastor after all this time.  Both of them knew it, but rarely did the devil jump straight to business.
Series: According to Plan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601629
Comments: 7
Kudos: 66





	When Playing with Fire goes According to Plan

_ “Hmm, hmm-mm-hmm. Hmm, hmm-mm-hmm.” _

It wasn’t unusual for the Radio Demon to be seen with a spring in his step and humming a jaunty tune. It was less often that his mirth was so genuine. At such times the safe bet was that it was at the expense of someone who’d dared cross him.

Most of Pentagram City's stable domains, Alastor’s among them, were ringed by a buffer of small, semi-autonomous territories. The arrangement was mutually beneficial. The minor lords got an arena for their turf wars—a place to sate ego and bloodlust without stepping on dangerous toes. Their overlords got to enjoy a semblance of civility. A healthy buffer zone was an offer of non-aggression. Or non-expansionism anyway.

But this was hell, and even the most courteous overlords coveted their neighbors’ land. The minor lords loved to bluster and pretend, but every one of them knew it deep in their bones. Their existence hinged on the tense ceasefire between their betters, on not giving anyone excuse to intervene in their turf. But this was hell, and in the absence of constant reminders, some of them forgot.

It wasn't long before speculation took root. Rumors flew from mouth to mouth faster than sense and drowned out memories of modulated screaming. “The Radio Demon’s gone soft,” they’d said. “Hasn’t picked a fight in years.”

“He’s weak. Lost his power in a deal gone wrong, and now he’s lounging around at that hotel.”

“Now’s our chance. He can’t take all of us.”

He didn’t need to.

Oh, it truly had been far too long. No wonder Alastor had been bored. Mass slaughter may have lost its novelty over the decades, but there were other ways of making an example. He just had to stretch his wings. Get creative. Tease out new ways of making a demon wish they could die.

His victim was a short, somewhat scrawny porcupine demon. The poor fool’s bluster swiftly turned to begging as his own flesh was turned against him. Shadowy hands held him flat against the table while his claws were snapped and used as scalpels, his spines as pins and needles and chopsticks. And – how convenient – the moment any dulled or broke, why, there new ones had grown to replace them.

The begging stopped around the time Alastor broke his fourth rib. Then there was only screaming, starting low and pitching ever higher as more of his lungs were exposed. It resonated wonderfully across the airwaves and set warm satisfaction flowing through Alastor’s blood, right up until he cracked the bottom arch of the porcupine’s ribcage. The screams turned to choked squeals then as his diaphragm flopped loosely in his chest. It would heal of course, but in the meantime Alastor sought other ways to entertain himself. Muscles to trim, shiny white nerves to strum, arteries to reroute into the porcupine’s airways until he drowned in his own blood, and, oh, the many, many uses of stomach acid.

It was nothing personal, of course. Simple politics. The porcupine’s territory was small enough that claiming it wouldn’t raise too many brows, and it happened to hold a quaint little diner Alastor had frequented once or twice. The food had been passable, the coffee as good as any found in hell, and the staff delightfully charming on pain of disembowelment and discharge.

It was there that Alastor headed once he’d cleaned the blood from his hands, or in its direction anyway. A few minutes’ walk past the diner was the edge of Rosie’s domain, now several blocks closer to his own. Today’s victory called for a visit to her emporium. A celebratory bottle of something expensive would go over well at the hotel and subtly confirm that his expansion was done. So long as the rest of his neighbors had the sense to tuck tail and run, anyway.

Alastor liked to think he’d made the message clear enough, and certainly most of his listeners had caught on. Folk who’d grown bold enough to merely flinch and hug the edge of the sidewalk as he passed were properly cowering now. They ducked into doorways, crossed the street when they saw him, or pressed against the walls and made like statues until every echo of static-laced humming had passed.

So when Alastor heard the tap of footsteps and a cane at his side, it was almost a surprise. It might even have caught him off guard if he hadn’t been half-hoping for it since the day he set foot in the Happy Hotel. Instead he finished the last bar of his song before turning to the demon who’d appeared as if from nowhere, invisible to even Alastor’s senses.

“Ah, my king! What a pleasant surprise! Now what can I do for you this fine afternoon?”

For a moment the two just grinned at each other, fully aware of how inane the question was. Lucifer had no interest in territorial squabbles. He could have only one reason to seek out Alastor after all this time. Both of them knew it, but rarely did the devil jump straight to business.

“Congratulations on today’s broadcast,” he said, letting his smile slip into something more genuine. “It was excellent as always, if a tad more . . .  _ focused _ than usual. Did your other pests elude you?”

“Not at all.” Alastor crossed his arms behind his back and straightened to his full height. It was a petty advantage and one of very few Alastor had, but it did force Lucifer to look up and nudge the brim of his hat back with his cane. His smile didn’t so much as waver, credit to him, but Alastor didn’t miss the way it sharpened. “Everyone loves a good symphony,” he went on, “but today the muse struck with inspiration for a sonata.”

“I’ll bet they found it plenty moving, even if it wasn’t your best work.” Alastor’s eyes lidded at that, and Lucifer chuckled. “No offense, I’m sure. It was striking enough for an experimental piece, but it’s been too long since hell’s heard a proper composition.”

“None taken.” Quite the opposite in fact. How flattering, to know the devil himself was already a fan. “I didn’t know I had such a discerning audience,” he said. “It’s been a while since anyone crossed me, but I’ll be sure to dedicate the next to you.”

Lucifer just raised a brow. “I’ll look forward to it, but surely it hasn’t been that long. What about Sir Pentious?”

“Who?”

“Really Alastor, it was barely a few weeks ago. The snake demon? With the – oh, it doesn’t –”

“Ah! The airship!” Alastor let his eyes light up with understanding as he clapped his hands together. The ship alone might have been memorable if not for the rest of the day. Far more interesting had been the faces of the hotel staff as Alastor annihilated it with one hand behind his back. “That was a private show, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? For whom?” As if he didn’t know. Lucifer’s tone was cold as polished steel and hard enough for sparks to fly. Sparks that threatened fire and that Alastor gleefully ignored.

“Why, none other than your very own daughter! She didn’t tell you?” Alastor shook his head in mock consternation. “Oh, dear. And here I thought I’d left quite the impression.”

For a moment Lucifer’s smile shifted. It wasn’t anywhere close to slipping, but a note of humor threatened to take the bitterness from it. Right before that humor was thoroughly quashed.

“I’m sure you did. Sadly Charlie and I haven’t been on speaking terms for a while. She’s going through a rebellious phase, you see.” Lucifer took a step closer, then another when Alastor stepped away. His arm snaked around Alastor’s shoulders and drew him down and close until it was all Alastor could do to not pull back, to keep his shadow from crawling with tentacles aching to reduce the offending limb to paste. No good would come of that. Any threats to Lucifer were liable to be turned back on the one who’d made them. Alastor’s smile took on hints of grimace, and the air filled with the hum of static. Lucifer went on undeterred.

“She’s been dreaming of heaven and absolution and all sorts of impossible nonsense. I’d _hoped_ a dose of reality would rid her of such notions. Her hotel would struggle for a while and fail, and she’d come back and start acting like the princess she is. But no. It seems she’s found a _benefactor."_

The accusation wasn’t thrown. Lucifer held it out like a daggerpoint, not even bothering to hide it behind his back. As if he was just waiting to see the knots Alastor would twist himself in to avoid it. The joke was that dodging was itself the trap.

From amidst the static came echoes of a laugh track. “Guilty as charged!” Alastor said. The hand at his shoulder shifted, but still he went on. “I simply couldn’t resist! Trying to redeem a demon? What a delightfully novel idea! Why, I can’t imagine anyone’s considered it in all the history of hell!” By the end, claws were threatening to pierce his coat and the skin beneath, but acting was always easier when putting on a show. Alastor’s grin was as pleased with himself as it had ever been, and Lucifer’s as sharp as a blade.

“I never took you for someone so . . . optimistic.”

“Oh, no, no!” Alastor waved a dismissive hand, ignoring the sting as moving his arm pressed against claws and drew blood. “Of course it’s impossible. There’s no saving a lost cause.”

With a sigh Lucifer pulled his hand away. For a moment Alastor almost relaxed until an elbow crooked around his neck instead. The static flared with interference, and Alastor forced it to mute even as Lucifer raised a finger to his mouth. Both demons stared as a drop of red flowed down its side.

This was a risk – had been from the start – but of all demons surely Lucifer would know what it was to be bored. King of hell but just as trapped as anyone, forced to watch an endless flood of sinners act out their self-defeating drama on repeat. He’d understand the gnawing, mind-numbing monotony that drove Alastor to games he had no business playing.

“I can’t say you’re wrong there.” Lucifer’s voice carried centuries of resignation, but that undercurrent of suppressed fury was still there. Not even a raised brow and winning smile could hide it. “It’s something Charlie’s never understood, but clearly you do. So why bother?”

It was absurdly, suicidally tempting to throw Lucifer into a spin. It had been a blast with Charlie and worked wonders besides. A couple favors, a song and dance, and a show of good humor had left her positively enchanted, and she  _ was _ her father’s daughter. They both shared that same bright exuberance, a giddiness that jumped to the surface when good times were at hand. It was utterly intoxicating.

He almost did it. Alastor’s arm crossed Lucifer’s back and came to rest at his waist. His foot inched forward, ready to pivot, and his free hand reached out for balance.

It was only at the last second that a glimpse of sanity caught up to him. Too late to stop entirely, but not too late to ensure he kept his limbs. He drew Lucifer in until their sides pressed together and raised his arm in a grand, sweeping arc. The only downside was that he couldn’t see Lucifer’s face.

“Because it’s hilarious! All those sinners thinking they’ll see the pearly gates if they mind their manners for a couple weeks.” Alastor shook his head and let out a chuckle. “No, no. There’s a reason they’re here, no matter what they pretend. And when they realize they’re doomed to fail? Ha, the look on their faces will be priceless!”

A single claw alighted just under Alastor’s lip. A thumb traced the edge of his jaw.

“And Charlie?”

Oh, she was doomed to fail too. Both of them knew it, but putting it so bluntly would hardly end well. This was the moment of truth, after all. The crux of the matter. The thin line between resignation and despair, and a parent’s concern, twisted as it was, for his child’s wellbeing. It was what Alastor had been banking on from the start, and no amount of frost in Lucifer’s voice would convince him he was wrong.

“Ah, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. Remarkable gal! Great singing voice. Always looking up. Shame she’s so naïve.” Lucifer’s thumb moved, and a claw pricked the skin near Alastor’s throat. As he spoke it drew a thin red line down to his chin. “Oh, relax. She’s  _ your _ daughter. No surprise she’s started off so appallingly innocent.” The claw reached the tip of Alastor’s chin, caught for a moment on bone, then flicked forward with a spray of blood. “Hah! She’ll find it more convincing, don’t you think, if the hotel fails properly? No doubts, no excuses, no, ‘If only I’d had a bit of help!’ Just proof it was impossible all along. That  _ is _ what you want, yes?”

Lucifer moved again, and this time Alastor managed to keep the shriek of static contained inside his head. They were face to face now, almost eye to eye, though Lucifer’s kept flicking down to where blood dripped from Alastor’s chin. It was too close, far too close, and only the knowledge that he’d provoked it kept Alastor from pulling away. Provoking was only a step from initiating, even if he was the one who ended up bloodied.

Well, no. That last bit had less to do with  _ how _ than with  _ who _ . He’d baited his line for a bigger fish this time, the king of the whole damned pond. Now, knee deep in water, one misstep would have Alastor drowned, and it was the most fun he’d had in decades. Beneath the tension in his shoulders, lightning danced across his nerves, setting hairs standing on end and widening his eyes.

And Lucifer knew it. Eyes that had been half-lidded in distrust filled instead with a dark hunger. “My, my. Never mind optimism, I’d never have guessed you had a considerate bone in your body. How much of this charade did you orchestrate for my sake?”

It took an effort for Alastor to break that gaze, but he did it, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Ha! I didn’t die yesterday. I’ve had a century to hear the stories. There aren’t many demons who get away with playing games with you.” He reached a hand up to wipe a drop of blood from his chin in demonstration. “Why, I’d be mad to try it myself!”

The last few words were spoken into the brim of Lucifer’s hat as the devil pulled him forward. With his vision blocked, Alastor’s hearing began picking up the slack. There was the ever-present static of course, and under that the soft tap, tap of blood dripping onto Lucifer’s shoulder. Even quieter though was a series of clicks as the devil opened his mouth to lick blood from his own hand, the one still crooked around Alastor’s neck. This close, Alastor’s shudder was unmistakable, and Lucifer let out a soft chuckle.

“But you  _ are _ having fun.” His tone shifted then into something breezy – light and almost conversational if not for his hand tightening in Alastor’s hair. “Alright. I’ll play. You can keep the hotel. Just remember, if I hear whisper that you’ve raised so much as a finger to harm my dear daughter, you’ll regret giving me so much inspiration for what to do to you in return.”

And then he was gone. Disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving Alastor alone on a long-since deserted street.

Gradually the static faded away, replaced by quiet ragtime piano. It kept jumping though, missing beats and going off key as residual shivers ran down Alastor’s spine. Eventually he chuckled and let it slide into a jazzy tune that better suited discordance.

His cuts were quick to heal, but a drop of blood still lingered on his chin and another on his hand where he’d wiped it away. He paused for a moment, considered, then stuck the finger in his mouth.

Ordinary blood. It was the same sharp, rusty taste as ever, and not even an uncommon flavor here in hell. Not when other demons had ichors and acids and other exotic fluids running through their veins.

But all the same, it was  _ his _ blood. The Radio Demon’s. There was power in that, literal and symbolic. Maybe it was just imagination that sent the taste of fire and shadows across his tongue, and under them a bitter tang he knew to be vacuum tubes and frequencies. Maybe it was imagination, but if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be long before Lucifer sought him out again.


End file.
